Punters only buy into words if they believe there’s worth. I’ve been begging for buyers before premature birthdays. Let earth spin unaware – never questioned its axis. Hid from the anxious parties, continued chewing table cloths, then choked on the spike of a train stub.
Not much value in a decade thrice lived – standing on the coast in yesterday’s underwear, a teenage busker sits between hip-hop legacy as new marble faces arrive in constant rotation. I’m waiting for my estranged brother dance, who ran out on me despite his free diary entries. Desperate for reunion. Bitter for the jives lost.
I’ve stepped further than I ever pictured but I’ll never walk away from the stalking wolves. Cubs are warned but continue to ignore all advice. Lions that scrap with the pack tell me to enjoy the plains. So I forget the bites and burn this poem in my future face.
Poem #24 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. Coming to terms with getting older.
What stuff is this cotton wool behind my eyes? A knit of foggy fibers holding fast my next thought. Odd when my mind so flies; at the age of fifty three I ought to relish ripe wisdom & cognition, yet here I am, forgetting where to turn just to reach the kitchen.
There’s a marvelous point I want to make about this piece...........aaaand it’s gone!